


don't tip the boat over (love and devotion)

by merriweather



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merriweather/pseuds/merriweather
Summary: It is a true irony of heaven and earth that the one girl who can fulfill Clare’s Plan is the same one who usually destroys them.
Relationships: Clare Devlin/Michelle Mallon
Comments: 26
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

Clare Devlin, it must be said, is a Maker of Plans. A goal-setter, a high achiever - a craic killer too, maybe, yes, but above all: a Maker of Plans.

Usually, those plans progress about halfway to completion, and then are abruptly derailed, through no fault of Clare’s. Because, it must also be said: Michelle Mallon is a Destroyer of Plans.

Looking back, this dynamic of creation and obliteration would be painfully obvious to a usually-brighter-than-that Clare, and it’s little wonder things turned out the way they did.

\---

It could be argued, however, that there are flaws in Clare’s original plan. Or perhaps even that it’s just a bad plan from the start. Usually bad-plans-from-the-start are Michelle’s area of expertise, but there’s some room for saying that this time it’s Clare who’s got a flawed scheme at the outset.

But who could blame her? See, there’s a tricky thing about being the only wee lesbian you know in Derry: your friends go on having all the standard teenaged rites of passage and Clare finds herself missing out. It’s easier for all the others; Erin and Michelle and James drool over the opposite sex every day, and can jump right into reckless teen romance with abandon. Of course they haven’t had much success, but it’s not been because of a mismatch of sexualities; they’re just each a right mess.

Why shouldn’t Clare have a chance to be a mess like all the others? At this rate, she’s going to have her first proper kiss when she’s well into her twenties, and she won’t know lesbian up from down. And if there’s anything that Clare Devlin, Maker of Plans, hates? It’s being unprepared.

So, as every problem has a solution, Clare lays out her own: find a way to get a bit of practice for future lesbian experiences, just so she’s not caught out when the time’s right. All she needs is a willing female participant who she’s comfortable with, who already knows she’s a lesbian, and who has fairly loose boundaries around being… well. Sexual, she supposes, although the destination itself is pure _not_ part of the plan. It’ll just be a bit of practice, like homework and quizzes to get you ready for the big exams. So, like a tutor. She needs a tutor.

There’s only one girl Clare knows who matches the description, and it is a true irony of heaven and earth that the one girl who can fulfill Clare’s Plan is the same one who usually destroys them.

\---

Michelle stares blankly at the sight before her, completely at a loss to try and understand what’s happening. Clare is almost pacing, but it’s more like she keeps trying to walk away, then immediately turns back and re-glues herself to the spot, like there’s a sadistic ghost yanking her back in place. Which is strange to begin with, but even more so considering she’d designed this whole conversation in the first. After school, she’d come round to Michelle’s, dragged her by the arm into her bedroom, and shut the door behind them.

“Michelle,” she begins for the fourth time, not quite meeting Michelle’s eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Clare, get on with it, James’s taken the telly and now I’ve got to fight him for it.”

“Right, sorry.” She roots herself back in front of Michelle. “I was wonderin’ if I could ask your help with something?”

That’s enough to get Michelle’s interest. Clare has never asked for Michelle for help with anything in their lives. If she needs something off a tall shelf, she asks Orla or James; if she wants someone to double-check her homework she asks Erin; if she wants advice on fashion or hair she definitely doesn’t ask Michelle or else it would look better most of the time. She thinks maybe once or twice Clare might’ve asked her help picking up something heavy.

“Help with what?”

“You know how you and Erin had those wee Protestant boys, and James had that unsettling vampirical Ukrainian?”

“Aye, and?” Michelle doesn’t feel it necessary to fill Clare in on the exact unimpressive details of the exploit with the Prods.

“Well, you lot are already so far ahead of me in that area,” Clare explains, seeming to gain a bit of steadiness now that she’s got momentum. “The boy-girl area.”

“Right, well, it’s gotta be a bit more challenging in the girl-girl area, so don’t be too down on yourself,” Michelle shrugs.

“That’s exactly it, though. Where’m I gonna have a chance to get some experience in the girl-girl area before I’m out of Derry and likely to embarrass myself?”

“Out of Derry? Where’re you going? You can’t go without us.” Michelle frowns.

“Not the point, Michelle! It’s just hypothetically speaking,” Clare stamps her foot a little, a habit which she seems to employ most frequently in response to Michelle. “I’m sayin’ that I want just as much experience as anybody else, regardless of boy or girl.”

“That’s grand, Clare, but how’re you going to get that done?”

“Michelle. Why on earth do you think I’m asking you for help?”

Oh. _Oh._ As usual, Clare’s the one that shoves the puzzle pieces together in Michelle’s brain and forces her to see the bigger picture. But this bigger picture is still very confusing. “You wanna snog?”

“Just once or twice,” Clare says defensively. “I’m only asking because I thought you might like to help out a friend in need, plus you’ve got the most experience out of all of us. Take it as a compliment, why don’t you.” Her voice doesn’t exactly sound like she’s giving a compliment, though.

Michelle considers this. “Ach, I can’t argue with that. I’ll come round yours tomorrow and we’ll have a go. No big deal.”

“…really?” Clare seems surprised, like she didn’t actually think all her reasoning would work so quickly.

Michelle shrugs again. “Unless you wanna start now?”

Clare recoils, indignant. “No, I wanna brush my teeth first.”

“Right, so I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Clare still just stares at her, looking stunned, so Michelle breezes past her to open the door so she’ll leave. Once they’ve paraded down the stairs and Clare’s gone, she flops onto the sofa next to James.

“What did Clare want? She never comes round here just her,” James observes, as Michelle reaches over and grabs the remote from him.

“She wants a bit of practice kissing girls,” Michelle explains with a shrug, and changes the channel.

James turns to look at her, surprise scrawled across his face. “Are you joking?”

Michelle feels uncomfortable. Fuck, was she not supposed to tell him? Fuck. She tries to back pedal. “Don’t be a prick, James, of course I’m not jokin’. I’m just gonna give her a few snogs and be done with it, no big deal. But don’t tell anyone, okay? Jesus.”

James just looks at her, bewildered, then settles back into the couch. “It just seems like a big deal, that’s all.”

“It’s NOT a big deal. Christ.” But something about James’s tone leaves Michelle with the nagging thought that maybe she’d made a mistake saying yes.

\---

The next day, a Saturday, Michelle goes round to Clare’s, under the pretense that Clare’s helping her with homework. For some reason, Michelle’s heart is clanging around in her chest a little louder than usual, and she’s not sure why. Clare doesn’t seem any calmer herself though, as she greets Michelle at the door before she’s even able to knock, and trips up the stairs twice. Michelle manages to grab her by the elbows before she has a complete tumble.

Once they’re in Clare’s bedroom, the door shut, they’re just stood across from one another, a meter apart. “Right. Hi?” Michelle offers, after Clare continues to say nothing. Fuck, this is weird.

“Oh. Yes. Hi!”

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Michelle takes her jacket off and tosses it on Clare’s bed, missing Clare’s frown.

But Clare doesn’t take any steps toward her, and for some reason it feels like Michelle’s got lead in her boots. They continue to stare. Finally, the frustration takes over, and powers Michelle forward. Experimentally, she reaches out and clamps both her hands on Clare’s shoulders, arms outstretched at total length. “Have you always been this short?”

Clare scowls up at her.

“Sorry. Right then.” And, unceremoniously, Michelle leans down and plants a kiss on Clare’s lips. She’s not exactly sure how long to hold it… should she count to three? Five? Ten? She gets to three, and then there’s some give. Clare’s relaxed her mouth, and suddenly they’re sinking into something that’s more like a _kiss_ and less like they’ve just got firm lips on lips.

Michelle only makes it two seconds more before pulling away, and they’re back to standing a meter apart.

“Aye, not bad,” Michelle bluffs, as she’s entirely unsure what to say. “What type of toothpaste d’you use?” Clare’s brow is furrowed, and she’s looking past Michelle entirely. “Lip gloss?” She tries again to get Clare’s attention. Silence.

“Right.” Michelle’s not sure what to do with her hands. Pockets it is. “Well, if that’ll be all…”

Clare’s eyes finally snap to hers, as if emerging from a trance. “I suppose so?”

Her expression - one of irritation - is finally somewhat readable to Michelle, and suddenly this feels like a test. And, well, Michelle’s never been good at those. She falters midway through reaching for her jacket, reconsidering. But what’s she supposed to do otherwise? So she shrugs her jacket on and turns to leave. “You’ll let me know if you want me to come round again?” That seems good, right? Yeah, that’s probably enough.

Clare’s body language is telling a different story, though. Her arms are folded, and her face is gathering into one of her typical looks: distinct disapproval. Michelle hesitates again, not sure if she should risk one of Clare’s classic freakouts or just run while she can. But then, in another turn, Clare finally replies. “That’s fine, Michelle, I’ll let you know.” And that’s as good as permission, so she’s sure she passed.

\---

The first flaw that Clare Devlin, Maker of Plans, is willing to admit about her Plan is this: she’d used her one and only first kiss on someone with zero emotional awareness. Which, yes, in fairness, she’d known from the beginning, and it wasn’t like she expected this plan to yield her any emotional reward other than the satisfaction of a job well done. It’s not like many teenagers get a real cracker first kiss; the way Erin’s going, hers is bound to be a disaster.

But still… Clare supposes there was a little part of her that was hoping she’d have a true romantic first kiss. It’s not like she’d ever really wanted that outright. It’s probably just a side effect of growing up with Erin, with her very Erin way of setting impossible romanticized expectations. But this realization just dawned on her for the first time five seconds after Michelle smashed their lips together in her childhood bedroom. And the wee dream was dashed before Clare even really knew it’d been hiding there.

This leaves Clare wondering if perhaps it’s a good thing that Michelle destroyed this plan in its earliest stages. She’s sussed out the flaw early, and now Clare can focus on having a real relationship, whenever that may come. It is thus, the birth of a New Plan.

What Clare had not considered, in fact, is that Michelle might destroy that one too.

\---

When Michelle arrives back home, her ma, folding laundry, immediately asks her where she’s been without James.

Michelle fidgets, wondering how much lying needs to be done here. “Uh… Clare’s?”

“You’re hardly ever at Clare’s on your own,” her ma observes, showing off her frightening ability to cut directly to the point. Without looking, she hands Michelle a pair of trousers to fold.

“She’s helping me with schoolwork,” Michelle answers quickly, proud of such a believable instantaneous lie.

It works - her ma actually _smiles_. “That’s awful kind of her.” But then she turns on a hairpin, fixing Michelle with a stern look. “You had better be doin’ something in return, Michelle, for her trouble.”

Michelle’s own satisfaction turns just as quickly to indignation. She tosses the trousers down in a huff, ruining their fold. “Mammy, can’t Clare just be helpin’ me cos she likes bein’ helpful?”

And then it comes off her ma’s tongue casually, which maybe accounts for why it sends Michelle into fury: “Ach, Michelle, I’ll not raise a child ending up like your Aunt Cathy. Thinking of no one but herself and what they can give her.”

The heat rises instantly into Michelle’s collar, at her ma just peaceably folding clothes without any awareness of what she’s just said. “Aunt Cathy, Mammy? Aunt Cathy!” With no other words in her arsenal, she turns on her heel and storms out the door, fuming.

Did her ma not know she was helping Clare practice being a lesbian right now? That wasn’t doing any good for Michelle at all, it was pure from the kindness of her soul, wasn’t it? But she couldn’t exactly shout that back at her mother, especially when she’d already told James and regretted it.

But… had she really helped Clare? Had she taken the job seriously, and participated in good faith? An uncomfortable memory wriggles its way to the surface: the pinning ceremony Erin had insisted on, and the way Clare had treated her. Unbeknownst to Clare, it’d taken Erin no convincing Michelle, Orla, and James to agree to wear the rainbow pins, but Erin had also devised an elaborate ceremony for Clare to conduct. Requiring her to pin them on ‘em and all, like she was a queen touching a blade to the shoulders of a knight. Clare herself tried to play it down, and kept telling them they didn’t need to, rambling at rapid speed in an increasingly higher pitch. But Erin, being Erin, wouldn’t settle for anything less.

Clare fixated on Michelle most of all during the process, arriving in front of her stammering over excuses and diminishments, fumbling and pricking herself with the back of the pin. Michelle’s not realized it until now… had Clare been worried she’d say something mean? Was that why her face lit up brighter than she’d ever seen it, the moment she stepped back from Michelle, pin firmly affixed to her lapel? Because Michelle was quiet, and looking down at her with nothing but a smile from her mouth?

Michelle kicks a rock along the road. She hates her Aunt Cathy. She’s never thought about _why_. And now here her mammy was, drawing a straight clean line between her selfish sister and her selfish daughter, as though it were Michelle’s fucking inheritance. Well, fuck that. Clare had looked at Michelle like she was proud of her, and no person Clare could be _proud_ of would ever be like her fucking Aunt Cathy.

Jaw set, she turns the corner to Clare’s street, her feet having carried her somewhat wittingly to her destination. She pounds on the door with her fist. Geraldine’s there to let her in, and tells her Clare’s in her room. With a thanks, Michelle marches up the stairs and pushes open the door. Clare looks up from her place on the bed.

“Michelle? What’re you doing here?”

“Stand the fuck up.”

Clare looks at her quizzically but obeys. As soon as she’s on her feet, Michelle takes two long strides, directly into Clare’s personal space. Disarmed, Clare tries to take a tiny step backwards, but she stumbles into the end of the bed, no room to go anywhere. Michelle wouldn’t let her anyway; she’s got one hand snaking around her back and the other up behind Clare’s neck, two bulwarks holding her in place. Before Clare can process this information rationally, Michelle leans down and kisses her. It’s unlike the first time they kissed, experimental and posturing, Michelle fortified with quips and skepticism, keeping Clare at literal arm’s length.

Clare’s brain, normally nimble and quick, short circuits and flickers out. She has no concept of time passing - it’s possible Michelle’s lips have been on hers for five seconds, or fifty. She feels distantly aware of fingers splayed at the nape of her neck, and grabbing the back of her shirt. She registers the tension of the fabric, which must be why she feels warm and itchy all of a sudden. Now Michelle’s lips don’t appear to be _on_ hers anymore as sliding _against_ hers, plying her mouth open, which seems to be happening all too easily on Clare’s part. Suddenly Clare’s distinctly aware of her own body. Where are _her_ hands? What is _her_ tongue doing? She searches the reality laid out in front of her for answers.

Mercifully, her hands are mirroring one another, a massive relief for Clare’s at-capacity brain. Positioned in parallel, they are clutching feebly at Michelle’s lapels. Michelle hadn’t bothered to take off her jacket when she’d come in. Oh. Clare’s left-hand fingers scratch along the fabric collar; her right-hand fingers meet the cold edges of Michelle’s rainbow pin, identical to her own. _Oh._

It’s at that moment that Clare’s brain comes hurtling back into action, and tells her hands to gently - quickly - firmly - push Michelle away.

Michelle, for the first time in her life, doesn’t say anything. Words aren’t exactly rushing into Clare’s mind either; she’s mostly trying to process the _looking_ that’s happening right now. Michelle’s face is flushed, her lips shining, her eyes wide and wild. She looks completely made-out-with, which is a mad thing for Clare because that means that _she_ was the one making out with her. _She_ is the reason Michelle looks like this at the moment. Okay, fine, Michelle is the one that barged in here and initiated all the making out, but still. The point stands.

“Michelle,” Clare begins, shoving all the _looking_ away and getting to the _thinking_ and the _speaking_. “Not that I don’t… erm, appreciate? This.” Her arms feel like lead; she can’t even bring them up to gesture between them. “But… what’re you doing?”

Michelle suddenly takes great interest in her boots as she rocks backwards from heel to toe, hands gripping at her own hips. It’s strange to watch her struggle for words; it’s as if her confidence is trying to flash out through her body language, but her mouth isn’t keeping up for once. “Well, Clare,” she eventually begins, as though she’s remembering Clare’s name for the first time. “I just got to thinking that maybe before I wasn’t helping you very much, and maybe if I was a good friend I’d probably be helping you more.”

“Okay.” Clare can’t possibly think of what to say after that. Her brain’s trying to conjure the plans for review, to figure out which one Michelle’s just either destroyed or enacted. She can’t make head nor tail of it, so she just fills the conversation with some silence.

Finally Michelle throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, Clare, I thought this is what you wanted, yeah? A bit of girl on girl to get you ready for goin’ on the pull in a year or two.”

“I know! I know.” Clare scratches her head. “I just wasn’t expecting you to… do that.” Actual nouns seem to have escaped her completely by this point.

“Well,” Michelle dips her head to catch Clare’s eyes. “D’you want to me to do that again? Either I’ll do it or I’ll not do it, it’s on you to tell me.” Clare can’t glean if she’s actually irritated, or if she’s just pretending to be, so that Clare has an out.

But the thought that Michelle is giving her an open pass for either option brings back some of her original verve. She remembers the plans, now, and what she’s set out to achieve. “What if…” She takes one step forward, brow furrowed. “What if _I_ want to do it?”

Whatever answer Michelle was expecting, it wasn’t that. Her faces flashes surprise, mischief, and admiration in rapid succession. “Well, then. Look at wee Clare making a move. I think the girls’ll like that.”

Clare actually feels herself _grin_ , and finds her feet taking the last two steps back into Michelle’s space. Michelle just stands there, waiting patiently with a little smirk. Then, after taking a quick mental inventory of every move she’s just made, Clare rises onto her tiptoes, grabs Michelle by the lapels, and pulls her down into a kiss.

\---

Kissing turns out to be relatively easy, Clare figures out. The progression of kissing Michelle accelerates quickly, because, well, it’s _Michelle_ , and things go from chaste to sloppy without much fanfare. And, as it’s Michelle, it also happens easily, without a lot of talking about it. She comes round like it’s an appointment, immediately drops her bag, and gathers Clare’s face in her hands, the metal of her rings like little pins against Clare’s cheeks. Clare finds it’s much harder to keep kissin’ when your face is stretched into a smile.

Other days, Michelle flops down on Clare’s bed and rattles off the latest stupid things James has said about the English (her words). Clare closes her book and listens for approximately thirty seconds, before leaning over to kiss her, just to see if it’ll shut her up. (It does.) This discovery leads to the inevitable epiphany that it’s much easier to just stay sat on Clare’s bed to make out. Easier on the feet and all.

“Erm, Clare,” Michelle says, when they’re in just such a position, after about two weeks of lesson learning, a comfort easily settled into.

“Mm?” Clare’s brain is having a hard time catching up to her ears. Apparently the same’s true for her hands, because the next question out of Michelle’s mouth is —

“Can we have a timeout? Your hand is on my bap.”

It is precisely at that moment that Clare wants to die. Melt into the earth and become one with the soil. Evaporate into the ether and float through the atmosphere somewhere above the Irish Sea.

She instantly springs back, removing her hand from Michelle’s body like it’s a hot pan. “ _Oh_ my god, I’m _so sorry!_ ” Humiliation rises up her neck like heat, and she knows she’s turning red. There’s no way she can look at Michelle, so she just buries her face in her own hands.

“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that. Ach, don’t make it weird!” Michelle scoots closer and starts pawing at Clare’s wrists, trying to pull them away from her face. Clare tightens her grip, refusing to confront the situation. “I liked it, eh? I just wanna talk about some things before we go any further!” Michelle finally gets a hold of Clare’s wrist and pries it away. Clare looks up at her just as she’s pulling her left hand back towards her bosom, where she places it squarely against her left breast and holds it there. “Here, let’s put it back. See? Grand.”

Clare can’t even begin to rationally process what’s going on. What are her fingers supposed to do? What is her mouth supposed to say? How is she going to ever unknow this embarrassment washing over her existence right now? When will Michelle ever make any sense in her ever-loving life?

“What on _earth,_ Michelle?”

“Well, I don’t want you feelin’ bad about this!” Michelle replies defensively, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, for her to be holding her friend’s hand on her breast right now. “And I just wanted to ask a coupla questions, all having to do with this general sort of topic, so it all kinda works out, alright?”

Clare can only blink in response. How has she ended up here. How. Was it her own fault? She thinks it was, which makes this all the more mortifying.

Michelle barrels forward. “So this is kinda like school, yeah? And I’m kinda like your teacher. Like… like a teacher’s aide who’s a total ride.” Her attention wanders as she smiles off in the distance, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“Can you accelerate to the point, please?” Clare gestures wildly with her free hand. She knows her voice is arriving at shrill levels, and she absolutely does not care.

“Fine, fine. So since we’re already one hand over on a new frontier here - ” she drums her fingers against Clare’s, trapped, and grins devilishly - “I wanted to ask you what all frontiers you wanted help with, before we went plowing on.” She stops; tilts her head. “Maybe plowing’s not the best word for the situation, but you get my drift.”

Clare finally yanks her hand back to herself. “There’ll be no plowing!”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Aye, I know! Jesus. So what’re we saying, then… second base? Third base? Light petting? Over the bra, or under? What is it lesbians like? Fingering, I suppose? I mean, I hadn’t thought about it, but - ”

“Sweet Jesus, Michelle, will you shut up and let me think?”

Michelle obeys with only a small huff, but Clare’s quite certain she can still hear her rattling off physical acts under her breath.

“Confidence,” Clare blurts out suddenly, shutting her up. “I want confidence. I don’t have any experience, and I want to have some idea of what I’m doing when it all happens for real.”

Michelle considers this and nods, earrings waggling. “Aye, makes sense. So what’s that look like… y’know, on the body?”

Clare pulls a face at the phrasing. Finally, she admits, “Taking control, I guess.”

“Need I remind you that your hand was on my tit not two minutes ago.”

Clare feels the heat in her cheeks again. “Let’s just forget the whole thing then, never mind.”

“Ach, I was only joking! Joking, geez. I’ll let you call the shots, and see where you land us.”

“Is there… anything that you wouldn’t, uh,” Clare clears her throat, and her voice lowers to a squeak. “…be comfortable with?”

Michelle cocks her head, untroubled. “I’d say anything up to my half virginity is fair play to ye. I’m a ride of a teacher’s aide, remember?” The same small smile plays at her lips again.

“Ugh, this is absolutely mad,” Clare sighs, rubbing her face with her hands.

“Will you calm the fuck down? It’s grand,” Michelle shrugs, then stands. “I’ll see you again for the next lesson. Why don’t you tell me when, eh?” She leans down so that her face, wearing a toothy grin, is directly in front of Clare’s.

Clare stares unblinkingly at her for a few moments, perplexed as to why she’s lingering there so close. Finally Michelle gets frustrated and throws her hands in the air. “Ach, read the signals, Clare, Jesus! You’re failin’ already!”

After the realization, frustration and exasperation flood Clare in equal measure and finally take her over. “Fine, have it your way!” And she grabs Michelle by the shoulders and yanks her down to plant a rather forceful kiss to her lips. There’s a muffled ‘oomf!’ of surprise, but Michelle relaxes into it, and the familiar pattern of their previous two weeks comes back to the fore. Clare feels relief wash over her with the reminder that this had been going well up until ten minutes ago.

When Clare finally pulls away, Michelle’s grinning at her encouragingly and nodding. “That’s dead on, good form!” And Clare can’t stop her laugh, an anxious release of weird emotions and disbelief, as Michelle sashays out of the room, inexplicably unbothered.


	2. Chapter 2

Michelle’s not exactly sure you can _teach_ confidence, but she’s sure as shite gonna have a try. Although, truthfully, Clare seems to be displaying a natural ability that’s slightly unexpected. Two days after their renegotiation, an intricately folded piece of paper slides across Michelle’s desk during class, the only thing to properly garner Michelle’s attention in about two years of schooling at least. Sitting up straighter, she casually covers the paper with her hand and glances up to make sure that Sister Paula is still droning on, none the wiser.

She unfurls it as quietly as possible, to see that it just says “9:30 tonight?” on it. Michelle grins and looks over to Clare, who’s sitting face forward, listening to the lecture and taking notes. _Nice play._ Aside from the whole school-loving thing, which is as mystifying as ever.

So after she, James, and Clare leave Erin’s at the end of the evening, she follows Clare back to hers - not before giving James a shove and instructing him to cover for her if needed. He stammers something about not wanting to know, and peels away down their street.

Clare doesn’t say anything until she greets her ma when they walk in, and Michelle just gives Geraldine a wave as she follows Clare up the stairs. “She’s helpin’ me with my schoolwork,” she offers by way of excuse, and makes sure to fake-gag for good measure. _Genius,_ she is.

They’ve just as soon as made it into Clare’s bedroom when she turns on her heel and affixes her face to Michelle’s in a fervor, pushing her back against the barely closed door. It’s akin to if they’ve started a race and Clare’s gone off like a shot, with Michelle lingering dumbfounded at the start line. This is a feeling she’s not used to - usually she’s the quickest to act, the quickest to speak, the quickest to jump headlong into an idea. She’s definitely not used to bein’ shut up and ushered along… that is, unless Clare’s the one shutting her up and ushering her along, most often on some tear of deranged do-gooding.

But this is definitely not _that._ This is an upgrade on that for sure; for once Michelle’s actually doing her best to keep up with Clare’s breakneck pace. She stumbles forward a bit, trying to regain her footing, which Clare uses as an opportunity to tug her forward by the shirt, immediately breaking her balance again. She pulls Michelle forward, step by step, punctuating each one with a new kiss between them. Their destination is the end of Clare’s bed, where Clare only breaks them apart long enough to sit down and look expectantly up at Michelle, who immediately follows suit.

Sat next to each other as they’ve done before, Clare leans forward and begins kissing her anew. Thank Christ, this is familiar territory now. Michelle feels the warm press of Clare’s hands on her thighs, and she finds her own hands drifting across to Clare’s hips, where they’ve all been before. But then, just as suddenly as Michelle feels some sense of orientation, Clare’s hand leaves her thigh and roves upward. It travels along Michelle’s neck and under her jaw, and, reaching its final destination, gently pushes her head back. Following this, for the first time, she strays from Michelle’s lips, opting instead to kiss a trail along her jaw line and then down her neck.

That’s… new. That’s very new. Now Michelle feels like her grip on Clare’s hips is merely for holding on while the world tips to the side a bit.

Clare eventually works her way back, and she’s not so unpredictable that Michelle can’t be sure she’s off to do the right side now. Slightly more prepared this time, she manages to scale her hand up from Clare’s hip to the base of her neck and thread her fingers through her hair. Clare makes a soft noise of approval that Michelle can feel against her skin. Or at least, she’s pretty sure it’s her skin. She doesn’t entirely feel like she’s in her body at the moment. It feels very possible that these are two different people sat on the bed right now. Not Clare, _Clare,_ and Michelle, _Michelle,_ as she’s known them their whole lives.

But before anything else can spin Michelle in an uncharted new direction, Clare’s back to pressing a kiss to her lips, except this one is chaste, and she follows it by saying, “You should probably be goin’… I’ve still got homework to finish.” Homework _is_ a proper buzzkill, but there’s still a lag in Michelle’s brain as she smoothes out her clothes and gathers her bag, leaving another frontier blazed behind her.

“New” continues in small increments, always after Michelle gets a note like she’s being summoned to appear at a trial. (The real trial is keeping some semblance of calm during increasingly horizontal kissing sessions with one of her best friends.) Three days later, Clare’s hands find their way back to Michelle’s breasts, over her shirt. Michelle resists the bizarre urge to grab one and shove it under.

Another four days after that, Clare leaves a small hickey on Michelle’s shoulder, carefully placed to be obscured, which also means that she’d had to undo the first two buttons of Michelle’s shirt and yank the collar aside. The fact that it was so obviously planned does not change the effect of Michelle’s brain short-circuiting as the entire sequence plays out, Clare’s small hands doing quick work on the buttons.

And another three days on, Michelle finds herself being gently nudged up Clare’s bed so that she’s resting against the pillows, which isn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it’s still disorienting to find herself near flat on her back with Clare - _Clare_ \- crawling over top of her body. She’s pure just trying to hang on, her own hands grasping at Clare’s arms as she gets closer, another boundary crossed with every centimeter. Clare just continues kissing her, hands pushing from Michelle’s collarbone to the back of her neck. But then she starts pulling back, and Michelle instinctually follows her, sitting up as she tries to keep their connection.

It’s precisely at the moment that their lips pull apart that Michelle realizes the exact position they’ve got themselves into. Clare’s arms are wound around her neck, each of her legs resting alongside Michelle’s. And in order to maintain their equilibrium, Michelle’s hands are clasped tightly at the very base of Clare’s back.

Clare is essentially straddling her, Michelle’s hands are essentially on her arse, and the universe as Michelle knows it essentially stops. She just stares up at Clare - at everything she’s just kissed, just touched, just tousled - frozen. Suspended in time in this very new space, the only movement is the rise and fall of shallow breath, not quite in concert with each other.

“Michelle?” Clare’s expression is shifting from lust to concern.

“Yes.” Michelle answers like she’s being asked to confirm her identity. She’s vaguely aware of the fact that were she to look straight ahead, her eyes would be very on level with Clare’s tits, entities that Michelle has never once fathomed before in her life.

“Are you okay with this?”

“Your arse in my hands, you mean?” She opts to ignore the baps.

“ _Jesus._ I suppose so, yeah.” Clare has the audacity to _giggle_ at that, and dip her head forward, so that her forehead touches Michelle’s for a few moments. Michelle’s - mind? hormones? heart? - can’t keep up. Clare’s not only straddling her hips right now, she’s also straddling both sides of their relationship, and somehow it’s the latter that’s more confusing. She’s talking to Michelle with the genial intimacy between friends, yet their fandangos are mere centimeters of blue jeans apart. Truthfully, Michelle’s never really experienced _either_ with Clare before, and it feels like she’s sliding out of reality and into the unknown, a kind of chaos she’s usually more comfortable with.

But before she can say anything more, or even process fully, Clare’s released her grip and climbs off of Michelle, nudging her aside so she can sit next to her on the bed.

“Sorry about that,” she says, still chuckling. She brings a hand to her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut, but she’s not radiating embarrassment like before.

Michelle finally gets some words back and tries for the nearest joke she can grasp. “No need… I’ve still got my half-virginity, happy days.”

Clare actually snorts with laughter. “You’ve been a very good teacher, Michelle. A total ride of a teacher’s aide.”

“Really?” A strange little glow flickers up in Michelle at the positive feedback, bringing her back to the present. She can’t help but turn and smile at Clare.

Clare just reaches over and clasps their fingers together, letting them rest on Michelle’s leg. “Really.”

Feeling a little smug, Michelle clears her throat. “Confidence looks well on you, y’know. You should keep it up.”

Clare smiles a little dreamily. “It’s a good feeling. Now I know why you’ve done it all these years.”

Michelle waves a hand. “Ach, just natural charisma.”

Clare rolls her eyes and laughs again. Whether it’s her mind, her hormones, or her heart, Michelle feels very light.

\---

Clare knows that the decent and proper thing to do would be formally end the arrangement with Michelle. She’s certain that they’ve reached the end of the previously-outlined agreements. The plan has been fulfilled, and lessons learned, so she should let her know, and thank her for her help. A closed book. A box ticked. A full stop at the end of a sentence. These things are usually very satisfying for Clare. But for some reason it’s harder to bring up the topic of ending their plan than it was to bring up the starting of it.

So she does the cowardly thing and leaves any end unspoken. She stops handing Michelle notes, even though she can feel Michelle’s eyes flicker over to her periodically throughout the day. They spend all their time in the group, which is never unusual, and so she simply lets their lives settle into what they were before this all started.

There’s one thing she hadn’t considered when she’d conjured this plan: the possibility that there wouldn’t be a _normal_ to go back to. And then there’s the one constant in any situation with Michelle: that she can’t leave well enough alone, ever.

So after a week of new-old normalcy, Clare is sliding a bookmark between the well-worn pages of _Jane Eyre_ and readying it for slumber on the nightstand when there’s a soft knock at her door. Before she can even respond, Michelle slips into the room, already in her pyjamas, hair down, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a sleepover, move your hole.”

Clare can’t hide her bewilderment, but still she slides over and pushes the sheets toward the end of the bed. “Did you sneak out? And then… in?”

Michelle scoffs at her as she steps out of her shoes. “No, I just told my ma I was goin’ for a sleepover ‘round yours since it’s Friday, and James couldn’t come because it’d be fucking inappropriate. And your ma let me in.” She shrugs.

Clare laughs, shaking her head. It’s amazing that Michelle could get away with that simply because she’s a girl and not a boy, even if the boy in question would be staying over with his cousin and a lesbian.

But Michelle’s cover of propriety seems to actually be genuine. She just crawls under the blanket, bouncing a little on the bed as she makes herself comfortable. She makes no move to kiss Clare, nor seems to be anticipating it at all. In fact, she starts asking Clare if she understood any part of the conversation they’d had with Orla on the walk home from school today.

Clare interrupts her, because she can’t entirely believe what’s happening. “Michelle, have you come over just to talk?”

She looks up at her like she’s crazy. “Yeah? I’ve not talked to you in like a week.”

Clare studies her, waiting for any awareness of the logic she’s just presented. It never comes. Michelle just shrugs and yanks at the covers, stealing more than her half. “What’re you reading?”

Clare decides to just go with it, as she scrambles to hold onto her share of the blanket. “ _Jane Eyre._ ”

Michelle wrinkles her nose. “Sounds boring.”

“Jesus, Michelle, how can one woman’s name sound boring? The book is anything but. This brooding fella’s keepin’ his mad wife in the attic and trying to get with the governess.”

Michelle looks genuinely affronted. “What a dick, who wants to read about that?”

“It’s considered one of the great romantic novels of all time!” Clare couldn’t have possibly imagined her evening progressing with Michelle in her bed arguing on the merits of Charlotte Bronte.

“If you say so,” Michelle shrugs. “Sounds like somethin’ dropped outta some Englishman’s hole.”

Clare huffs. “A woman wrote it, and a half-Irish woman at that. Her dad was a Prod from near Belfast.”

“Well, fuck me, then,” Michelle almost looks half-impressed. “But I’m still not reading it.”

“I’ll just have to read it to you, then,” Clare announces, feeling irritated and indignant for no particular reason other than principle. This always happens with Michelle. She flips to a page and begins. “‘I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night.’”

But she doesn’t get very far. In fact, after less than a half-page of reading aloud, the bedsprings jostle violently. She stutters to a stop as Michelle yanks the book out of her hands and tosses it. Clare grabs fruitlessly after Jane as she clatters to the floor.

Now Michelle’s perched directly in front of her, tilted back on her heels. “For fuck’s sake, Clare, why does every sleepover with you have to turn into a fucking study club? You’re gonna do my head in!”

Clare frowns at the sudden turn this visit has taken. “ _You_ came over _here_ , Michelle, it’s not like I invited — ” But before she can finish, Michelle leans forward in one swift motion and puts her lips to Clare’s, silencing her. Somehow, in spite of it all, this is not what Clare had been expecting. Even though she hadn’t formally ended their arrangement, she’d just assumed the message had got across anyways. The experiment was over, the practice done, and Michelle’s favor to her expired. But now, Michelle has showed up on her doorstep, climbed into her bed, impatiently endured 243 words of Charlotte Bronte, and begun kissing her anew.

Just as Clare’s beginning to grasp how it’s twice now that Michelle has inexplicably done this, Michelle pulls back, settling her hands on either side of Clare’s legs, hovering over her. She stays there, and levels her with a look, face open and expectant. “This alright?”

Clare feels a bit lightheaded. Before, Michelle had given her a carte blanche to make all the first moves… but now, here she is charging ahead and asking for the reverse. It’s difficult to ignore that this series of events is kicking up a swirl of change around them. She knows, with a small amount of guilt, that she’s to blame for starting it. What she’s not sure of is when Michelle will realize, what it will mean, and how it might end. But she can’t bring herself to point it out now, and kill the moment dead. So instead she just looks Michelle in the eyes and says, “Yeah, it’s alright.”

Michelle grins, then leans forward and kisses her again, slower this time. Now, rather than waiting for Clare to lead, she takes full advantage of blazing her own trail. No longer simply the subject to Clare’s practicing, every ounce of disorient and restraint she’d felt before is now channeled into reciprocation, and the usual feeling of confidence she’s been maddeningly disconnected from.

Swinging one leg on the other side of Clare’s hips, Michelle settles into place, and experimentally runs her hands up and down the length of Clare’s torso, watching them the whole way, the thin fabric smoothing and rumpling underneath her touch. Then, she grabs Clare’s hands and puts them on top of her bare thighs, just along the edge of her pyjama shorts. Clare accepts this with no retort, but when Michelle looks back up at her, her face is more flushed than it’d been when she was chastising her. Her fringe hangs messily across her brow, and Michelle finds herself, as if on auto-pilot, pushing strands of hair gently aside. One of Clare’s hands drifts up to hold Michelle by the wrist, then runs along her forearm to grip her at the elbow and pull her forward. Michelle catches her weight with one hand on the wall, all too happy to task the other hand with more touching.

If Michelle were any better at being acquainted with her own thoughts, she might have to answer the question of why she’s here, even though Clare’s said nothing of their lessons for a week. She might endeavor to address why being a good friend means having her hand up Clare’s pyjama shirt, or why being a good teacher means her mouth should be running paths along her neck. She might need to examine why she didn’t want to spend another night staring at the ceiling wondering what Clare’s up to, or why, when we she does sleep, Clare is the unwitting headliner of some unfortunately explicit dreams that are, at the current moment, blurring into reality.

No, Michelle is much too enamored with the _doing_ of things rather than the _thinking_ of them. The _thinking_ may or may not come later, and that’s the time to dwell on things like answers and meaning and consequences. For now, as always, there’s too much satisfaction to be had with the doing of things, especially when things involve making out in Clare’s bed, a press of limbs and warmth and abandon.

But no sooner has Michelle settled into this particularly satisfying set of actions, there’s a creak from out in the hallway, as if amplified by a stadium speaker. She freezes in place, and Clare tears her lips away from her, eyes on the closed door. They wait, stupidly still stacked atop one another and not immediately rearranging to appropriate sides of the bed.

Silence. They remain alone.

“Michelle.” Upon hearing her name whispered, Michelle turns her attention back to Clare, and drops her head. Clare just brings her hands up to Michelle’s temples, pushing her hair back a few times, as though she’s soothing a wild animal.

“Yeah.” Michelle actually knows what Clare means for once. She returns her hand to the outside of her pyjamas, and rolls away, flopping down next to her. If only there was an easy way to force her heart rate back down to normal and hush the intoxicating buzz of a good time being had.

“You alright?” Clare whispers into the dark, after a few moments of merciful silence.

Michelle sighs, and considers not answering. But she can tell Clare’s watching her, and she doesn’t want her to freak. So finally, she just says, “Yeah.”

Another moment passes, then Clare’s fingers wrap around Michelle’s and begin lifting them up. She turns to watch as Clare pulls her hand toward her, the moonlight from the window curving around her edges. Michelle’s almost convinced, bewildered, that she’s going to kiss her palm, but then instead she rests it… squarely on her tit. She meets Michelle’s gaze with a very un-Clare-like grin, her lips still red, smeared with Michelle’s lipgloss.

“For fuck’s sake,” Michelle sighs in complaint, rolling her eyes. But she knows she’s smiling now too.

“See? Grand.” Clare giggles. “And fine, I admit it, a lot better than _Jane Eyre_.”

It’s enough to switch Michelle’s mood in an instant. “Aye, see where I’m much better at sleepovers? And I didn’t even bring vodka,” she retorts happily, as she slides her hand off Clare’s bap and moves it around her waist. She scoots closer, making sure to jounce a few extra times on the bed, then tries to nudge Clare onto her side. “Roll over, we’re spoonin’.”

“Sweet Jesus, Michelle, there’s no need to _push_ me, I’m movin’!” Clare takes her time to situate herself, adjusting the blankets neatly over them both as she settles onto her side.

“This is meant to be romance practice, and you’re ruinin’ it. Future lesbians are gonna think I did a shite job raising you.”

“You think ‘roll over, we’re spooning’ is romantic? _Honestly,_ Michelle. I think _you_ need romance practice,” Clare grumbles as she grabs Michelle’s hand and yanks it round. Michelle settles in along the back of her, not really listening.

“Fuck, I think I gave you a hickey.” From this angle, Michelle can see a clear red mark forming just below Clare’s right ear. “Guess it’s hair down for a few days then for you.”

Clare opens her mouth, probably to yell at her, but she stops short when Michelle, after a bit of study, plants a kiss in the exact spot she’s talking about. Then, instead, she just says, “Good night, Michelle.”

“’Night, Clare.”

Silence falls over them like a blanket, but Michelle can’t sleep. Instead, now, with the actions done, there’s an uncomfortable amount of room for the thinking of things. In the dark and still of night, she’s now keenly aware of the fact that she’s lying in Clare’s bed, her arm wrapped round her, Clare’s hand sort of resting on top of hers. It’s just them, for the first time in their lives, after four weeks of… well. A different sort of “just them” than Michelle had ever imagined before. This is _Clare_ , after all. Who attacks even the most boring endeavors with an alarming intensity, and holds herself to a higher standard than Michelle’s sure any normal human is capable of achieving. Clare who’s reliably ruined every good craic Michelle’s ever had in her life, and Clare who is the least sexual being Michelle could have ever considered. Clare who somehow looks _different_ now, as though something inside her’s changed the outside.

Or maybe it’s something inside Michelle that’s done the changing. A thought, that is.

With a sigh, she rolls back over and stares at her old friend, the ceiling. Clare doesn’t stir.

\---

It is an inevitable part of Clare and Michelle’s arrangement - knowing Michelle, and knowing that Michelle had told James, and knowing James, and knowing Erin - that Erin would eventually come bursting through Clare’s bedroom door in a fit of rage.

“You and _Michelle_?”

Today is apparently that day. Clare nearly topples off her bed, dropping _Jane Eyre_ in the process, even though she fully expected this. “Erin, I can explain - ”

“You and _Michelle_! Michelle.” Erin is followed by James and Orla, James completely winded from chasing her, Orla completely not.

“Sorry, Clare,” James says feebly but earnestly, hands immediately going to his knees to catch his breath.

“Imagine my surprise,” Erin begins, rearing up with spasms of anger, “When James came round this morning _without Michelle_ , and after some amount of interrogation, gave up a _scandalous_ bit of classified information!”

“He folded like a house of cards,” Orla interjects. “Not fit for spy work.” And it’s a testament to Erin’s frenzy that she actually nods furiously in agreement with Orla, clearly appreciative of the backup. James doesn’t even attempt a defense.

“What’re you doing, huh? Sneaking around and lying to us?”

Clare fumbles for words. “It’s just a bit of practice! It’s not what you think, I just asked her to help me with lesbian stuff so I won’t be so unprepared for whenever I can finally _date_ like you lot do.”

“Aye, and why not me, huh? Why’d you ask Michelle for help and not me? Your best friend!”

Clare’s thought process screeches to a stop, completely disarmed by this argument. There’s silence as the conversation hangs in the balance, then a crash and a muffled “fuck!” from Clare’s closet. Clare closes her eyes in frustrated disbelief, and doesn’t even bother turning around. Jesus save them all. The closet door bangs open, and Michelle emerges from under an avalanche of soft toys.

“Fuck, Clare, sorry, but your entire fuckin’ childhood just spilled over on me.” She comes up beside Clare and rests her forearm on her shoulder, taking in the high court stood before them and completely disregarding the tone. “Hi all. Happy days.”

In any other circumstance, Clare might’ve been charmed by this non-reaction. Or infuriated; she’s honestly not sure. But there’s no time to decide, because Erin is clear in countdown for nuclear now, and the only option is to brace for impact.

“So! Not only did you NOT ask me to help you with your lesbian experiences, but what, you were in the middle of a study session and tryin’ to lie about that too?” Erin bursts forth into a bout of pacing, which Clare has no choice but to follow. But Clare’s bedroom is tiny, so Erin’s snaking through the same seven paces, between James, and Orla, and Michelle, with Clare trailing immediately on her heels.

“It’s really not a big deal, Erin, I didn’t want it to be a big deal!”

Erin whirls around, her finger pointed as though ready to jab Clare with it. Clare halts as fast as her feet allow. But whatever Erin was planning to say, she abandons, eyes drifting and then peering intently somewhere past Clare’s eyeline. “Is that… is that a _hickey_?”

“Ah, fuck.” Michelle, from behind Clare, grabs at her hair, which is falling down the back of her neck, and shoves it around to the front of her shoulders, hoping to cover it up. “Pay no mind.”

“That doesn’t _seem_ like not a big deal,” James frowns, completely unhelpful.

“Thanks for _that_ contribution, prick.”

If Clare could somehow evacuate this mortifying conversation without consequence, she absolutely would. Erin just lets out a squawk of frustration, and continues pacing. Clare’s still determined to follow, although all her excuses and qualifications are just sort of sputtering out.

“To be fair, Erin, they’re one of the only sets of us that could do this, what with the family relations and all,” Orla chimes in, as Erin and Clare stomp by. She starts counting on her fingers. “I could make out with James, and Clare, and Michelle, and you could make out with James, and Clare, and Michelle - oh, wait, that’s the same - ”

“I beg you, please stop doing the math,” James implores, spinning to the side to avoid being plowed down by Erin and Clare on another pass.

“Erin, what do you want me to tell you? That you’re my best friend and Michelle’s not? Of course that’s true, that’s why I asked Michelle! I didn’t want to it to be weird!”

Erin suddenly stops in her tracks, and Clare bounces right off the back of her, stumbling into Michelle, who grabs her by the shoulders and rights her. Erin turns again, and there’s a little bit of softness in her eyes. But it immediately disappears when Michelle finds it necessary to say, without any malice, “Well, that and I’m probably a bit better ride.”

“Ride?” Erin’s eyes dart back and forth between Michelle and Clare, as she roars back to life. “There’s been a RIDE?”

Clare could murder Michelle. “There has been NO ride! Michelle, could you shut the FUCK up and sense the tone for just once in your life! Erin, Michelle is impossibly comfortable with all things related to, well, everything leading UP to sex, as she has just madly demonstrated, and that made it easier to ask her than you! And Orla, I am actually the only one of this group that could make out with ANYONE as I’m not a cousin to any one in the lot of you!” She deflates after the last indignant point just sort of spills out of her.

James pipes up, in a manner that Clare suspects he woefully believes might be helpful. “Except for me, technically, being that I’m a fella and not a lesbian.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about it, dickhead.”

That seems to be the last straw for Erin. She doesn’t say anything else, and Clare can’t read her expression beyond the glint in her eyes. She just turns on her heel and storms out of the room, leaving the four of them frozen, unsure of what to do.

But Orla seems to know. “I’m off after her then.”

James is left coincidentally standing between Michelle and Clare, a fact which he notices with a jolt, and which propels him towards the door as well. “Right, I’ll leave you ladies… uh. To it.”

“Oh _honestly_ ,” Clare grumbles, as she realizes what he’s awkwardly dancing around. “There’ll not be any ‘it,’ James!” She calls after him, fruitlessly.

“Right then.” Michelle shoves her hands in her pockets, once they’re alone again. “I don’t suppose you fancy continuing where we left off, eh?”

Clare bursts into tears.

“Ah fuck! Fuck fuck fuck, sorry. Jokin’ was clearly not the mood of the moment.” Michelle rushes forward, but once she arrives in front of Clare, she stops short, unsure of what to do. Clare takes the decision for her, throwing her arms around Michelle and burying her face in her shoulder.

And then, arms clasped around Clare’s back, tentatively figuring out how to reassure her, Michelle says a series of unexpected things. “Listen, love. Nothing’s ever gonna change our group, eh? Erin’ll come ‘round.”

She doesn’t exactly say it in a comforting tone; it’s more like she’s parroting words she’s heard one of their mas say. But it does make Clare feel a bit better. And if she had been paying proper attention in that moment, she would have stopped and asked Michelle for clarification on what exactly Erin would need to be coming ‘round _to_ , and why.


	3. Chapter 3

Michelle goes home in the afternoon, leaving Clare to work on schoolwork for what’s left of her Saturday. But it’s near impossible for her to focus, as her mind mostly wants to sort through the tangle of overwhelming events that’ve occurred in the past 48 hours. She hasn’t yet tried to reach out to Erin, opting instead to give her some space to cool off. Moreover, she doesn’t know what she’d say. She’s all too happy to apologize, but then inevitably Erin’d start asking questions about how the arrangement with Michelle started, and what it all _means_ , and Clare can’t answer any of that right now.

Because, truthfully, Clare can’t even begin to riddle out answers to those questions for herself. Michelle’s behavior is usually impossible to follow in ordinary times, even as she’s directly narrating her exact linear thought process. But her actions aren’t lining up with what she’s saying for once, and Clare’s not sure which to pay attention to. On the one hand, Michelle keeps talking about coaching Clare through her plan, with a verve Clare would have never expected. But then… their kissing has gone much farther than Clare ever anticipated, and Michelle’s made no attempt to stop it. Now she’s coming round for sleepovers and making out unprompted by any assignment. And she’d even mentioned _romance_ practice, which was never part of the negotiation.

On top of it all, if Clare’s honest, she’s also having a hard time believing the bewildering reality that this is happening with _Michelle_. Who smells of vodka half the time and pretends to care about nothing all the time, but would absolutely fight anyone in a heartbeat if they went after any one of their group. Michelle who ruins nearly every rational plan Clare’s ever set forth in her life, and Michelle who Clare pinned a rainbow pin on without a single retort. Michelle who’s begun to look at her different now, in a way Clare can’t put a name on but that tugs at something inside her when she’s faced with it.

All of this thinking about Michelle means that Clare just winds up on her stoop in the evening, even though Derry’s having an unusual cold spell, and a light dusting of snow had fallen around supper time.

It’s Deirdre that answers the door, looking Clare up and down with her typical scrutinizing expression. But Michelle appears at the top of the stairs as soon as Clare stepped inside and began chatting about the cold. Clare’s not sure if Deirdre buys their excuse for going for a dander in this kind of weather, but she leaves it be, and just instructs them to dress warmly and not go far.

The streets of Derry are empty, as everyone’s home enjoying their fireplaces, which is evident by the faint smell of woodsmoke hanging in the bitter air. Michelle and Clare walk side by side down the lane, hands in their pockets, bumping shoulders every so often.

“Have you spoken to Erin?” Michelle’s the first one to break the silence.

“No,” Clare admits. “But I’ve not tried ringing her.”

“Ach, best to give her some time to calm down,” Michelle shrugs. “No sense wastin’ energy ’til she’s ready to listen to you. Erin’s… Erin.”

“Has James asked you about anything?”

Michelle scoffs. “Right the fuck not.” Her breath bursts forth in a swirl of condensation, visible in the lamplight. “Wouldn’t tell him anything even if he had.”

They walk down to the end of Michelle’s lane, and turn the corner, feeling an immediate sharp decrease in the wind. Michelle takes the opportunity to lean against the brick wall that’s shielding them from the cold, and pulls out a flask. She takes a swig from it, and passes it to Clare, who hesitates, then accepts.

“Can I ask you something?”

Clare swallows and nods, trying not to pull a face as the vodka burns its way down.

“How’d you even know you fancied girls? Without ever… tryin’ one on.” Michelle toes at the ground with her boot. It’s the quietest Clare’s ever heard her speak.

“I just knew, I s’pose,” Clare answers carefully, doing her best to sidestep the surprise at being asked such a question, by Michelle of all people. She wants so much to make sure she’s honest, and gentle. “I just couldn’t imagine myself kissing a boy, marrying a boy, loving a boy. If I think about being… _happy_ with someone, I think of a girl.” A smile spreads across her face, unintentionally summoned by the conclusion.

Michelle chuckles. “I’ve never even thought about it.”

Clare hesitates. The moment feels so delicate. “Are you… thinking about it now?”

Michelle looks away, something like a grimace on her face. “It’s hard not to with your tongue in my mouth every other day.”

Even with the frigid temperature, Clare suddenly feels hot around her collar, and she can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or pride. She tamps down the unpleasant urge to apologize. When she looks back up, Michelle’s turned back around and is beholding her with a frown. “Fuck. I meant that in a good way.”

“It’s okay, y’know,” Clare says softly. “To know right away, or to not know for a long time, or even to not be sure at all.”

Michelle still just looks at her, and finally, after a moment, she lifts herself off the wall and moves to stand in front of Clare. Wordlessly, she scans all around them, the empty streets of Derry, awash in golden lamplight and a thin layer of snow. Presumably spotting no one, her gaze drifts back down to Clare’s as she leans closer. Slowly, she tips her head and brushes her lips against Clare’s.

It is softer and gentler than Clare thought Michelle was capable of being, and suddenly she’s overwhelmed with how _alone_ they are, yet completely in the open. This is the first time Clare’s kissed a girl in public, and even though there’s no one around to see it, it still feels monumental, irreplaceable, irreversible. Maybe that’s exactly why - the freedom to be who she likes, with she likes, in the full openness of the streets with no one around to say otherwise. Distantly, Clare hopes this is what the _future_ feels like.

Michelle pulls back and just looks down at her, as though studying her. Clare can’t help herself; she removes one of her hands from her pockets, braving the frigid air, and rests it along Michelle’s cheek. She swears she feels Michelle tilt her head against her palm ever so slightly. Maybe it’s just for warmth, but it’s enough encouragement for Clare to tip forward, and kiss her again. This time, emboldened by Michelle’s confession, Clare teases her mouth open so that her tongue grazes Michelle’s.

The soft sigh from the back of Michelle’s throat makes Clare wonder if maybe this moment has meaning for the both of them. But she just kisses Michelle’s smile, and Michelle hers, the only warmth in the cold night.

\---

Sunday, Michelle spends on her own, with no word from Clare or any of the girls. It’s massively boring, but it’s still fucking baltic out, so she stays inside, switching between magazines, music, and television to distract herself from thinking about yesterday’s events. The day drags on, and when supper’s finally done, Michelle doesn’t even really mind that she’s tasked with James to wash up the dishes.

It’s James’s turn to do the washing and rinsing, so Michelle is drying and putting them away. Usually for this routine, Michelle’s talking about school and boys and whatever inspiring trouble the group has got up to recently. But tonight, she’s quiet, and she hates that James knows why. She hates that there’s only one possible topic for conversation, and she hates that she might have something to say about it. Unspoken, it’s itching at her brain, but she can’t quite drum up the will to get it out.

At long last, she clears her throat. “James?” She makes sure to say it when she finishes toweling a plate, so she can turn away as soon as he looks up.

“Mm?”

“You know how me and Clare, we’re… kissing and stuff, just so she can practice?”

“Yeah?” James stares at her in disbelief, and she turns back but refuses to meet his eyes. “Literally you’ve told me.”

Michelle whips him with the towel. “Fuck off, never mind.”

“Okay! Fine.” Once the attack is over, James doesn’t press her for more. Instead, he just goes back to the dishes, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spoon that’d been left coated in jam.

Michelle founders, irritated, but just decides to keep going. “The thing is… I didn’t even know I’d _like_ helping Clare, but… I do.”

James runs the spoon under the tap and hands it to her for drying. “The helping, or _how_ you’re helping?”

“Well, if I’m honest, I didn’t think I’d be up much for either, but, well, look at me. It’s… it’s the fucking highlight of my year.” She’s finally gotten the words out, and on doing so, brandishes the spoon towards James’s jugular. “And I swear to Christ, if you tell her that…”

“Why would I tell her that? You should tell her that!” James, recoiled, swats the spoon away.

“Fuck me, why would _I_ tell her that?”

“Michelle.” James fixes her with a pitying stare. She hates him more than ever. “You _like_ Clare.”

“Of course I like Clare, she’s one of us,” Michelle snipes. “Sure, she’s on about school more than anyone in their right mind would be, and she’s always there to ruin good craic… but in the end she’s probably the best of us and, I dunno, she’s… Clare.”

“You’re smiling right now,” James points out. “You _fancy_ her.”

Was she smiling? Ah, fuck. She makes sure to rearrange her face in a scowl. “Fuck off, James.”

“Michelle, you brought this up!” He shoves another plate at her. “Why’re you being so thick? You clearly like what’s happening with Clare, and you should just tell her and see if she wants to do it for real, instead of bandying about with this whole pretense of practicing.”

She grabs the plate from him, angrily swiping at it with her increasingly damp towel. “It’s not a big deal,” she chides, turning to put it in the cupboard.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” James agrees, and Michelle wants to punch him in the face. She can’t help it; she whirls around again, jabbing a finger in his shoulder.

“It _is_ a big deal, dickhead!” She hisses. James looks genuinely startled. “It’s a BIG fucking deal, because here I was, going about with my average teenaged life in fine old Derry, dreaming of boys and drugs and drink and how everything’ll just be grand if I always find the good time, and now instead here I am, having a few snogs with one of my best friends and figurin’ out I might fancy girls? How is that not a big fucking deal?” She whips him with the towel again. This time he grabs it in midair, and tries to wrest it from her clutches. Scowling, she grips it tighter, and they devolve into a full-on match of tug-of-war.

“Gimme it!” Michelle grunts, slapping at him. But after a minute of squabbling struggle, James has grabbed enough of the cloth to yank it completely away from her. When he does, he shouts, “What are you so afraid of?”

And then they’re still, facing one another, panting to catch their breath. The question’s hit Michelle like a bus. Finally, unbidden, her own questions bubble to the surface.

“What if she doesn’t fancy me?”

James doesn’t answer.

“What if I fancy more girls than just Clare?” The bigger question comes out in yet a smaller voice.

His expression softens. But the sight of him is sort of swimming in general; there are tears forming and she can’t see properly anymore.

“Fuck.” She scrubs at her traitorous eyes with the heels of her hands. With a small smile, James holds out the towel, offering it back to her. “Prick.” She chokes out a laugh, snatches it, and dabs at her eyes. Her eyeliner leaves smears of black on the cloth. _Fuck._ Her ma’s gonna kill her.

“Do you want me to answer those questions, or will you hit me?”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. I promise I won’t hit you. Jesus Christ.”

“I think you should tell her it’s real for you, and see what she says. Maybe there’ll be girls after Clare, or maybe it’ll be Clare forever. Maybe your life looks a little bit different than you’ve thought. Maybe you’ll be happier than you’ve thought. Or a better kind of happy. Kind of like me staying in Derry. It’s a better kind of happy here. Why not try to be happier?”

Michelle squirms under the sentiments, and does what she does best: deflects. “Aye, I’d probably punch you less.”

“See?” James chuckles. “All the more reason to give it a try.” He turns back to the sink, and empties the dirty dishwater down the drain. Michelle looks down at the towel in her hands and rubs her fingers over the black marks, trying to wipe them clean.

\---

Since Erin won’t pick up the phone any of the times she rings, Clare finally goes round to her house on Sunday evening. She’s met at the door by Orla, who leans forward conspiratorially and greets Clare with a grave whisper. “I’ve been given strict orders not to grant you entrance.”

Clare’s heart sinks. Surely Orla will take Erin’s bidding seriously. “Right. Could you at least give her a message?”

Orla seems to be considering this. “Ach, I don’t think it’ll do any good.”

Just as Clare’s frustration starts to rise at her dwindling options, Orla opens the door wide.

“I’m terrible at remembering messages, Clare, so you had better just deliver it yourself.”

Clare hurries inside, relief flooding her. “Thank you so, so, so much, Orla. You won’t regret it.”

Orla waves a hand. “It’s nothin’. I reckon nothing’ll get better unless you talk about it. Needs must.”

Clare throws her arms around Orla without a second thought, and thanks her again as she heads upstairs.

Erin’s laying belly down on her bed, music drifting from her radio. She’s holding her pen over her open diary, but not writing, and she lays the pen down completely when she sees Clare standing in her doorway. Clare notices she’s wearing their best friends necklace, and a flicker of hope relights within her.

It dims a bit when Erin frowns. “Orla’s a traitor.”

“Well, she’s safe for a little while, seeing how you have to deal with us in order, yeah?” Clare smiles weakly.

Erin sighs. “I suppose so.”

“Erin, I really want to apologize, if you’ll let me. And also,” she takes a deep breath, “I really need to talk to my best friend.”

This seems to work. Erin softens, and sits up to make a space on the bed for Clare to sit down. “You have my attention.”

“Right. First of all, I’m SO sorry that I kept this secret from you. I’m sorry I lied about it. I’m sorry I snuck around and didn’t tell you.”

“Are you not sorry for asking Michelle instead of me?”

Clare hesitates, words stuck on her tongue. “That’s kind of the part I need to talk to my best friend about.”

“Ah.” Erin nods. Then her eyes widen as she starts putting the pieces together. “ _Oh._ D’you - _fancy_ … Michelle? You fancy _Michelle!_ _You_ fancy Michelle?” The processing continues from realization to shock to more realization in a steady rhythm. “Were you sneakin’ around for real then?”

“No!” Clare rushes to answer. “I didn’t _know_ I might fancy Michelle, I just… I think I had a list of very practical reasons to ask Michelle that were… convenient.”

“… _Michelle?_ ” Erin’s mouth falls open and shuts again. “Michelle!”

Clare finds herself defensive. “It’s not completely mad! It’s just - I asked Michelle, and I s’pose I didn’t really think she’d say yes, but she _did_ , and then she took it far more seriously than I’d ever expected and it was _nice_ that she seemed to care, y’know? And I got to practice bein’” - she gulps for air - “ _forward,_ and things just started feeling _different_ and she was bein' _nice_ to me and if I’m honest the kissin’ was good too so I suppose I really do think Michelle’s a ride, but we haven’t really talked about any of it and I reckon Michelle might fancy girls on top of all of this, and... I have no clue what any of it means.”

Clare was hoping that telling all the truth would make things easier to understand, but Erin’s eyes go wider still. She makes a few more guppie-like expressions with her mouth, clearly at a loss for words. Finally, she manages to summon a few. “How… did _any_ of this happen?”

Clare buries her face in her hands. “Aye, you’re asking the central question.”

“Michelle. And you. Kissin’.” Her eyes are glazed over, looking off in the distance.

“So we’ve been.”

“You, fancyin’ Michelle. Michelle, fancyin’ girls.” A pause. “…did she tell you she fancies girls, or are you just guessing?”

“I’m not just guessing! But I think this is… y’know, _new_ for her and I don’t wanna go makin’ assumptions or puttin’ any pressure on her. It’s _Michelle_ ; hearin’ her talk about her feelings is like hearin’ a badger recite Our Father. It’s just… sometimes, when we were in the middle of… _practicing,_ she’d look at me like. Y’know. Like… she _wanted_ me. Like she wanted _me_.” She says it just above a whisper, as though if she dares utter it aloud, the universe will finally reveal to her that this is all an elaborate joke.

Erin’s shock has not ebbed. “How… _far_ … did you two, y’know, _go,_ exactly?”

Clare sighs and drops her head into her hands again. “We’ve done more than originally planned.”

“Christ, have you seen…” Erin lowers her voice as if they’re being wiretapped. “… _naked bits?_ ”

“No!” Clare’s instantly defensive, head snapping back up. “But… I’ve felt some stuff.”

“Jesus Christ, almighty. Why did I even ask.”

“Well, we’d kind of stopped with the basics, but then she came back ‘round, and just… started things up again! And there was touchin’, Erin, I’ll not lie to you!”

“I long for your lying days now,” Erin huffs. “This is gonna melt my head.”

Clare sighs, and flops back on Erin’s bed, staring at the ceiling. “The thing is,” she begins, “I’ve got to do something about this. I’ve made a mess of things, and I’ve got to put it right.”

Erin carefully sits back to lie down next to her. “What exactly’re you gonna do?”

“I’ve got to stop it, I think.” Clare whispers at the ceiling, refusing to meet Erin’s gaze. “There’s absolutely no way this is really happening for real, and we’ve got the future to think about. Like, can you imagine? Me and Michelle? Dating? Going to dances at school? Holding hands, being serious? It’s beyond mad. We’re teenagers. We were we’ans together. And if Michelle’s thinking she fancies girls, she shouldn’t just stick with the first one she snogs. Plus… it’s _me_. And _Michelle_. No. No. There’s just no way.” She shakes her head vigorously, like the notion could simply be dislodged from her brain by force.

Erin doesn’t say anything, but Clare can still feel her eyes on her.

Clare just sighs, letting more truth find its way into the light. “I guess… I just… I knew it wouldn’t be an easy time, trying to have any kind of relationship considering I’m a lesbian. And I reckon my plan was stupid all along. It’s just, even with all that… I would never have expected _this_.”

Erin just reaches over and squeezes Clare’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Clare squeezes back. Silence settles over them, and rests until Erin breaks it with a a very small voice.

“Would now be a bad time to tell you why I think I was jealous?”

The question snaps Clare’s attention over to her, laying next to her. Her hand in hers.

“Jealous of me?” Panic flutters in Clare’s chest - surely Erin couldn’t possibly mean…? She tries to approach it delicately, despite the inward alarm. Sweat gathers on her palm. “Jealous of… Michelle?”

But if Clare’s stumbled onto any shocking nuance, Erin completely misses it. She disentangles their fingers and brings her hands to her face. “I didn’t want anyone to be more important to you than me, and then I think - ” she hesitates, then starts again - “I think if I’m honest I was a bit jealous of you having an arrangement where you can _try_ messing around with a girl without any consequences. I never thought… that was an option.”

Clare’s heart rate stutters back to normal, but she’s still not sure Erin’s saying what she thinks she’s saying. This was slightly easier with Michelle, who as always, stated things more plainly. And the fact that it might be happening with Michelle and now Erin is pure mind-boggling. “Do you mean -?”

Erin turns to look at her, eyes searching. “I think I always wondered a bit, y’know? After you came out. It made me think about both boys AND girls. And maybe… there’s a situation where I fancy both?”

Little puzzle pieces start locking into place, and Clare claps her hand to her forehead in realization. “Of course, Charlene Kavanagh! No wonder you’re always fallin’ all over yourself when she comes around!” A peal of laughter escapes her.

Erin frowns, in an exaggerated expression Clare has been all too familiar with their whole lives. “I did not - and _do_ not - _fall all over myself._ ” She spits the words out with bluster.

Clare giggles again. “Not any more than when you’re talkin’ at John Paul, so at least we know you’re consistent. Anyways, the point is, it’s no big deal. I’m sure it’s definitely possible to fancy girls and lads both.”

“Really?”

Clare shrugs. “I’m no expert, but it’s surely no less possible than fancying just girls on the whole. And whatever Michelle is.”

Now it’s Erin’s turn to laugh. “Christ, I can’t even imagine kissing Michelle, though. She seems like she’d eat your entire face off.”

Clare feels like she should take some offense, but her response unwillingly comes out with a giggle. “Only sometimes!”

Erin cackles, wrinkling her nose and turning her face away in disgust. “No, I don’t wanna know!”

“Well,” Clare starts up again officiously, all too happy to get them back on topic, “I’m bettin’ you’ll have plenty of opportunities to kiss girls other than me and Michelle, Erin. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

The smallest of smiles melts onto Erin’s face at the compliment. Then, suddenly, yet another realization dawns on Clare, leading her into a full fit of giggles.

“What on earth is so funny now?”

Clare brushes tears away from her eyes. “First me, then Michelle, and now you. Michelle was right. We _are_ pack animals.”

Erin considers this for a moment, and relents with a chuckle. “…maybe we should ask Orla and James some questions.”

The laughter is a welcome distraction from Clare’s predicament, whether Erin meant for it purposefully or not. And Clare realizes Michelle was right about a second thing: nothing was ever gonna change their group.

\---

After her talk with James, Michelle keeps coming back to this whole “maybe you should tell her” business, and the notion usually ends up winding its way around Clare’s words to her in the snow. But she’s far too cowardly to take any action, especially when it’s easy to settle into normalcy where they’re hardly alone together. Between school and time spent with their families and the group, there’s an easy way out of talking about anything serious. Of course, this new stalemate also means that all the physical stuff has stopped as well, which is pure regrettable.

All told, the situation is nowhere near managed, and there are consequences to that fact. There isn’t any place to put all of these new feelings, and Michelle finds, with no small amount of horror, that they’re leaking out in strange and unfortunate ways. On Thursday, as they’re all standing about talking on a school break, Michelle’s watching Clare chat animatedly to Orla and not listening to a word, which is not unusual. What _is_ unusual is that Michelle’s gazing at Clare’s fringe pushed sidelong across her forehead, and she absentmindedly reaches out to brush some of it out of her eyes.

Clare just stares blankly at her, and as it turns out, everyone else does too. Michelle clears her throat and mentally scrambles. “What? It looked bad.”

Thankfully, that’s been the worst of it, but it’s bad enough. Then the weekend comes round again and Michelle starts thinking maybe she could work up enough nerve to end this torture. Just go to Clare’s and tell her she wants to do more kissin’, proper and for real this time, no more thinking and dwelling and doubting. But luckily, she doesn’t have to, as Clare knocks on her bedroom door midday Saturday.

Michelle knows she sits up way too eagerly to embody any coolness in this moment. But it’s Clare, so the standard for cool is not worth worryin’ about.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I came to talk to ye, because… well. We probably have talkin’ to do. That’s the mature, rational thing to do.”

Michelle aims for a little levity. “Since when’ve I ever done that?”

“Michelle.” At least Clare’s stopped freaking out on her completely in such instances, and instead just lets it go.

“Right. Sorry. You were saying?” Michelle’s heart clangs erratically against her ribcage at the looming prospect of whatever conversation might come next.

“I dunno.” Clare sighs, fiddling with the edge of her shirt sleeves. Finally she looks up at Michelle, face open and wanting. “Something’s happening between us, right? I’m not mad, or imagining it?”

Clare’s just plunged right into emotional honesty, and it makes Michelle squirm. Her brain runs through three reactions instinctually: 1) scoff and say something coarse to change the subject, 2) lie and call Clare vain, or 3) pretend she has somewhere else to be at the moment, and leave. All of these would have been viable options six weeks ago, without a second thought. But here, now, Clare’s looking at her with such gentle vulnerability, like they’re both extremely breakable. Michelle can only imagine how badly it’d go if opted for any of those careless reactions, and just willfully smashed the both of them to pieces. So a fourth consideration tiptoes forward, in the form of James’s advice. _Why not try to be happier?_

So Michelle clears her throat and speaks up. “You’re not mad, or imagining it.” She can’t quite bring herself to make eye contact, or use any new words other than the ones Clare’s already verbalized. But she’s taking the chance. She’s sayin’ what she wants - something that, for the first time in her life, is much harder than she thought it would be.

Clare exhales a deep breath. “Okay.”

“…yeah. Fuck if either of us could’ve seen _this_ coming.”

After some silence, Clare ventures the conversation again. “…are you okay?”

This question actually snaps Michelle’s attention from her boots to Clare’s face, with a simultaneous yank on her feelings. It’s not a question she was expecting, and it completely disarms her. Usually such a clean tearing down of barriers makes her lash back in anger, but she’s not sure she has it in her now. Not when Clare is delicately asking this question without any fuss or demands to talk about it, or including herself in the conversation. Not when Clare’s pure the best support she’d ever have in this area.

So Michelle wills herself to unfold her arms and say more truth. “Aye, it’s some getting used to, but I’ve already got the pin, haven’t I?” She laughs weakly and tries to judge Clare’s reaction. But she’s just looking at her intently, expression unreadable. Michelle’s hands find their way back to her pockets, and she shrugs. “Overall… it’s whatever. I mean, I suppose you’ve turned out alright, yeah?”

Clare blushes at the compliment, and then immediately becomes Very Clare, energy level rising quickly. “If you ever want to talk about _anything_ , Michelle, you know you can talk to me, right? I mean it, anything at all.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Michelle hand waves it away, not wanting to draw any more attention to it. “I know.”

Clare hesitates before speaking again, much calmer this time. “Can I give you a hug?”

“Fuck, Clare, you don’t have to ask.” Michelle opens her arms as Clare gingerly steps forward and into her body, embracing her. Michelle doesn’t bother trying not to think about how they fit together nicely like this, as she rests her cheek alongside Clare’s temple. And after a few seconds or so, when Clare tries to pull away, Michelle decides to keep her arms clasped around her back, and seize an opportunity. With Clare’s face pulled back just slightly from Michelle’s chest, Michelle dips her head and captures her lips in a kiss. She doesn’t resist, and just melts closer again, which gives Michelle no small sense of satisfaction. Even with all the boundaries they’d crossed, this still feels the closest they’ve ever been, completely wrapped in each others’ arms, truths acknowledged and then set aside, opting instead for simple kissing.

Michelle would be quite contented to just stay here doing exactly this for awhile, but Clare gently presses at her collarbones and breaks away. “We — mmf — should be talking,” she says, Michelle continuing to kiss as best she can.

“Ach, fine,” Michelle grumbles. But then she’s being manhandled, and not in the good way. “Hey! What the fuck?” Clare has gripped her arms and forced her to backpedal to the other side of the room. Then, she turns around and marches back to her original position, three meters away.

“You stay there. We need to talk. And for that to happen, you need to stand over there. I can’t talk to you when you’re standin’ all close and the like.” She gestures wildly and vaguely at her face.

“This is mad,” Michelle sighs, although she’s not attempting to cover up her smugness at the inherent compliment in what Clare’s saying, and the flustered energy about her.

But then they’re just silent, stood at opposite corners of the room, their breathing returning to normal.

Finally Clare speaks, a bit of desperation in her voice. “What’re we gonna do?”

Michelle shrugs. “I dunno. I usually just do what you do.”

Clare laughs indignantly, without humor. “Oh, that’s _rich;_ everyone knows we all end up dragged along with what _you_ do!”

“Ach, only when it’s the fun stuff,” Michelle shoots back, folding her arms.

“Fun by whose definition?!” Clare goes shrill for a moment, then seems to deflate again as a measure of self-control. “Not the point. The point is, maybe we should just forget this all’s happened.”

Michelle’s heart sinks, and she hopes to Big M it doesn’t show on her face. “Jesus Christ, you’re actin’ like it’s the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened to you.”

“That’s not what I mean! It’s just — we’re sixteen, and we get into arguments like _this_ , and chances are we’re gonna make a mess of things, because it’s _us_ , and then it’ll ruin our group, and even if it doesn’t, we’re gonna grow up and maybe move away, and anyways we’re gonna want all kinds of different experiences, like, you’re gonna wanna get the shift with so many other people, and surely want to try out other women, and they’re all bound to be cooler and taller than me, and I’m always gonna annoy you with books and rules and studyin’ and honestly it just seems like such a bad idea. Maybe we should just go back to bein’ friends.” She takes a gulp of air to catch her breath.

Michelle just throws her hands up. “For fuck’s sake, Clare, if there’s any more of this, there’ll be less of it. We’re still _friends_. There’s nothin’ different to go back to.”

Clare fixes her with a look of surprise and confusion, like Michelle’s presented the answer to a maths problem that she’s never been able to solve. She doesn’t say anything more.

Michelle doesn’t even know where to begin with the rest of the argument. “D’you really wanna stop whatever this is?” She gestures vaguely at the three-meter expanse between them.

“I don’t know what this _is_ ,” Clare pleads. “Or where it’s going.”

“Jesus. _Okay._ ” Michelle tries to be patient with Clare’s desperate need for order. “But none of us knows where the fuck our lives are going, Clare. We live in Derry for fuck’s sake. I was already planning on living as much of it as possible with you and the other girls, and maybe now for us it just looks a little different than we’ve thought, eh? And maybe after awhile it’ll look different again. All I know is I’m not runnin’ off, and now that I’ve wised up and figured out I want to be around you like… _this_ , why wouldn’t we just keep at that for as long as we want? Why would we choose a harder, worse thing?”

At this distance, it’s hard to tell if Clare is laughing or crying. “How is it you _always_ end up ruinin’ my plans?”

“Cos half the time your plans are shit,” Michelle shrugs. “And frankly _you_ always ruin _my_ plans, and you should know that half of my plans now involve a bit of tongue maneuverin’, so it’s in your best interest to go along with my ideas from here on out.”

Clare sort of laughs and sighs at the same time, as she wipes at her eyes. “Ach, you’re so frustrating.”

Michelle waits as patiently as she can while Clare just wordlessly looks at her, the tears drying out on her cheeks. Then, in an instant, she draws in a deep breath and spans the distance between them. Once within arm’s reach, she grabs Michelle by the shoulders and kisses her, some of the confident Clare returning. The force of the action causes Michelle to wobble and catch herself to regain her balance. And then, an electric shock of happiness rockets through her, and Michelle absently thinks she could keep chasing this kind of attention from Clare for as long as she’d possibly allow.

“I have a feeling this is gonna be exhausting,” Clare mumbles against Michelle’s smile.

Michelle pulls back and waggles her eyebrows. “But… in the good way, right? Y’know. Like foolin’ around instead of sleepin’? I’ve still got half a virginity left, y’know.”

“Sweet Jesus, _Michelle._ ” And, bringing her hand to her cheek, she shuts her up before she can say anything further to ruin the moment.

\---

Clare Devlin, it must be said, no longer makes plans. And so, for the rest of their lives, there is nothing for Michelle Mallon to destroy. (She finds other stuff.)

\---

_fin_


End file.
